Method
by FugueState
Summary: ."...and the cast get eaten by the play." Dark. Rated for language, violence.


**Method**

_Rise from bed. (03:19 this time maintain randomness) Straighten the bedclothes. Walk to the bathroom. (13 steps; fatigue is showing) Swallow multivitamins. Urinate. Shower. (filthy piece of SHIT!) Dry. Walk to the dressing area. Dress. (uniform #3, facial prosthesis #16, accent #8) Check appearance in the mirror. Go to the door. Open it. Walk._

There was a time when the day would be greeted with a hearty "Good Morning!" Various tunes would be hummed or sung to accompany the morning's routines. A simple breakfast would start things off, made with care and savored. A favorite book might be revisited, perhaps with the Wurlitzer playing in the background. The day's business would be attended to quickly and efficiently: programming, construction, research; cleaning, exercise, meditation. Meals would be prepared as needed, each receiving its share of focus. Evening might be filled with poetry, a film, or more music before the day was bid farewell.

_Pass by the feeding supplies - no food today. Walk to the door. Open it quickly and loudly. (asleep; maximum disorientation) Put the bag over the head. (what oh god please stop no don't hurt me stop) Strike the head, shout. Grab the arm. Tighter, make a bruise. Don't torque the arm; pull straight, or it breaks._

Now the days begin at random, often spanning more hours than they should. Meals - if they are consumed at all - consist of liquid supplement rations  
(because one night he caught himself humming as he measured out the dog food he was using as a base for her meals)

that require little preparation. Eating is maintenance, nothing more. Music and films are a distraction and a security hazard;  
(turning to them for solace would be an obscenity)

the sound could travel to the cells and endanger the illusion. Reading material is now strictly work-oriented  
(ever since the night he'd broken down weeping in the middle of reading a poem)

because so many plans have had to be altered.

_Handcuff the wrists to the bench, one notch too tight. (Siddown SIT filthy slag) Turn on the light. Activate recording C-27a. Remove the bag. Grip the back of the neck. Shut off the recording. Push the head under the water. (moderately strong resistance; add a day without food) Release. Activate recording C-22c. Repeat. Count the seconds. (seven, eight…better grow some gills, hadn't ya) Release. Recording C-31c.  
Repeat. Release. Repeat. _

There is too much work to be done to allow for indulgence. There are security systems to infiltrate, explosives to build, physical training to maintain. There are costumes and accents that need upkeep, interrogation scenarios to construct, feeding schedules to follow, physical damage to calculate and administer. Delicate work, all of it, demanding the utmost concentration and care. Everything extraneous must be stripped away.

_Bag over the head. Uncuff the wrists. (blood on the left one) Walk back to the cell. (maintain rapid pace Stand UP you fucking cunt!) Open the door. Remove the bag. (nosebleed making a mess) Shove the small of the back (wet slap of body hitting concrete) Close the door. Engage the lock. Walk away._

It has been weeks now. The tears have stopped, finally. The dreams continue.  
(Flashbacks of Larkhill; visions of Evey dead, by his hand or her own; and the worst ones – the ones of tenderness, when he would cradle her and whisper his sorrow at all he'd done to her.)

Sleep is something to be pushed past until it can no longer be avoided.

_Return to the dressing area. Remove the uniform. (large smear of blood on the right sleeve) Remove facial appliance carefully; don't tear it. (fucking useless waste of flesh) Clean makeup residue from skin. Put away the makeup supplies. Take uniform to the laundry room._

A tiny, still-human corner of his mind hopes someday she will understand, if not forgive.

_Look at bloodstain on sleeve. (I don't know anything I don't know idontknowidontknow) Soak garment in cold water. Clean out the blood. (fucking piece of SHIT what are you looking at)  
Clean.  
Out.  
(hold him hold him down fucking talk back to ME will you HOLD 'IM DOWN gonna teach you a lesson that's what hit 'im again fucking hit 'im yeah how ya like that you scum-fucking sonofabitch)_

It hopes she can find him again, if she does.

_- Finis -  
_

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Noun: method acting - An acting technique introduced by Constantin Stanislavsky in which the actor recalls emotions or reactions from his or her own life and uses them to identify with the character being portrayed.


End file.
